Spring and Stuff

I’ve been going round and round trying to decide what to write about this week. It’s been a mental musical chairs without music, chairs or much in my mind. The going in circles part, I’ve got down. I’ve been thinking about stuff, because it’s everywhere. I’ve been thinking about Spring, because it’s been elusive, since hitting the calendar last Saturday.

The “stuff” thing took centerstage in my mind (yes that scary place where I spend most of my time) when, while driving, I saw a homeless person pushing one overflowing grocery cart while pulling behind him, two more bound together by a heavy strap. It appeared burdensome. I thought, wow, even the homeless are weighed down by stuff. When my Dad died, and my siblings and I gathered to clean out our childhood home, there was a lot of stuff; my parents’ treasures. They had worked to collect those treasures, and we were left to work to dispose of the treasures. Rather than, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasures;” it was a case of “one man’s treasures are another man’s trash.” Stuff is ambiguously seductive.

So, what about Spring? It, too, is ambiguously seductive. My grandchildren and I spent the first full day of Spring pulling weeds from the rocks in my xeriscaped front yard. Weeds had popped up during the warm final days of Winter. By the fourth full day of Spring, Spring had donned her dominatrix outfit and whipped Albuquerque about the buttocks and back of the legs with branch limbs, ice and sometimes trees. Stuff (ha!, get the connection?) was everywhere. I hope the city’s homeless had enough stuff to keep themselves warm.

As I sat in my house, watching snow and my yard furniture swirl around my backyard, I created a community (I’ve been longing for community during the pandemic) in my mind (yeah, we’re back there again). In this community, people live in boxcars that surround an octagonal round house (there are eight boxcars). The people gather in the round house for meals and fellowship, and retire to the boxcars to sleep and engage in peaceful contemplation. There’s not a lot of space for stuff, but there are enough people to help each other when the weather or emotions make a mess. I hope all of the people are nice, sincere, honest and empathetic. The community will be a happier place if they are.

The sun is trying to come out. Life is good. I better go out in my yard and try to right my backyard furniture and gather and dispose of the felled branches. Life is good, but it ain’t easy.